Western Ireland
by AlyshebaFan1
Summary: Amazing what a little genealogical research can bring up, isn't it?


This is a total one-shot. I had it on my hard drive since probably about March of this year and finally went ahead and finished it. I have not forgotten about "Charm is Deceitful" though. I just wanted to finish this one and get it out. _  
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_CONNEMARA, WESTERN IRELAND, 1825_

* * *

"What the devil are you doing, pointing that thing at me?"

"I keep forgettin' you're rather stupid, m'lord," the tall Irishman grinned. "Now hand the bag over."

Lord Spencer glared at the highwayman, trying to appear threatening, but he knew for a fact that this man was more than capable – and willing – to kill him. He handed over the silk purse and watched the filthy Irishman bounce it on his calloused palm, weighing it. "Very good, m'lord. You've gone up in the world." He glanced at the beautiful young woman sitting in the coach with Spencer and smiled. In the bright moonlight, his blue eyes were almost violet-colored, and she drew in her breath. "Yes indeed. Up in the world. And who's the pretty young _colleen_ with you?" he asked Spencer.

"My fiancée!" Spencer snapped at him. "And you'll be respectful toward a well-bred young lady!"

"I suspect she breeds quite well, ya poncy little _amadan_. She agreed to marry you?" The highwayman laughed. "Poor little thing – got vision troubles, eh, _beag milis_?"

The young woman lifted her chin, but she couldn't hide her fascination with the dangerous-looking man holding a pistol to her fiance's head. He was tall, very lean, clearly underfed, but strong and hard and determined – a very definite contrast to the corn-fed, silk-clad (and frankly rather bloated) looks of Lord Spencer. The Irish highwayman was wearing the ragged clothes of any other poor Connemara man, yet he carried himself like a king. Even in his shabby rags, he made Lord Spencer look like the insufferable little fop that he was, and yet again, she felt like she was caught in a vise. Ever since her parents and Lord Spencer's parents arranged their upcoming marriage, she had felt _trapped_.

She refused to answer the Irishman, though – she had been taught to never speak to the rough Catholic natives of Connemara. Yet she had, from the moment she had arrived in the wilds of Western Ireland, been fascinated by them, and admired their courage and strength. They were like an entirely different species from the soft, rather pudgy Englishmen she knew. She looked at her fiance, and almost sighed. Her older brother called John Spencer an insufferable ass, and the more she knew of him, the more she agreed.

"And what is your name, _colleen_?" the highwayman asked her.

"Jul-…Juliet, sir."

Lord Spencer was aghast. Only a gentleman – that is, an Englishman - could be called 'sir' in Western Ireland. One cold look from the highwayman, however, made him hold his tongue.

"Aye, a good name for a _bhean óg_. Your father's that Scotsman that came out here two years ago, eh? I've seen ye ridin' in the Knox hunt - we always have a laugh, leadin' these _asal dúr fir Béarla_ on a snipe hunt through the bogs." He stepped closer, and Spencer was horrified to see his fiancée _blushing_. "Do ye have any baubles you'd like to contribute to our just cause, _mo alainn_?"

"You forget, you filthy thief, that your language is _banned_!" Spencer squawked.

"Beggin' your pardon, your idiotship, but at what point did I say you were allowed to speak?" the highwayman asked him, in a rather mild tone, his gaze never leaving Juliet's even as his pistol remained leveled at Spencer's temple.

She slowly removed a ring from her finger, boldly holding his gaze, and handed it over. Spencer watched in horror as his own grandmother's ring, which he had given Juliet to seal their engagement, was dropped into the grubby hand of a robber. The Irishman smiled at her, holding her gaze for several moments longer than Spencer thought proper, even in these circumstances, and the English lord finally cleared his throat.

The highwayman stepped back, bowing slightly, and swept off his hat, revealing dark, tousled, silver-touched hair. "I thank ye both for your generous boon to our local charity," he grinned. He swung astride his thin but speedy-looking bay horse and galloped away. They could hear his laughter, even over the hoofbeats. Lord Spencer collapsed in his seat. His fiancée poked her head out of the coach and watched their robber ride away.

"Juliet, my dear, are you all right?"

She smiled softly. "I'm fine, John. Just fine." In fact, Juliet had never felt better.

* * *

_PRESENT DAY_

_Santa Barbara, CA  
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* * *

"Dad, I can't believe you're doing this," Shawn said, staring in mild horror at the box Henry had hauled down from the attic. "Who cares where we came from?"

"I do. You should, too. We're Spencers. We could be…related to royalty, and if you don't know anything about the past, you'll never be ready for the future."

Shawn snorted, rolling his eyes, and shuffled through some of the papers and extracted one. "Oh, look, Dad. Our ancestors were landowners in Ireland. How cool – they evicted starving families from their homes…oh, and how cute! All during a famine! We caused people to starve to death!" He perused a few more pages. "Look! We even burned a few poor tenants' homes to the ground when they couldn't pay rent on the land their ancestors had owned for centuries!"

Henry frowned and read through the gloomy page. "Looks like it. Oh…hey, look at this…" He pointed to another paper, holding it up. "Some of the tenants on Lord Spencer's land in Connemara were named Lassiter."

Shawn sat down, laughing bitterly. "Well, isn't that ironic? And scary at the same time – Lassie's ancestors hated mine. A whole blood feud reaching back through the mists of time!"

"I wouldn't mention it to him, Shawn," Henry shook his head, giving his son a warning look. "Considering his relatives killed some of _our_ ancestors, and later were involved in burning _our_ home to the ground in the mid eighteen-thirties, it might give him a few ideas."

"Did ours kill any of his? Other than by outright starvation, I mean?" Shawn asked, taking a mild but only very brief interest in his father's sudden bent for genealogy.

"No." Henry frowned, reading through what looked like an old court record. "As a matter of fact, one of the Lassiter men was a highwayman and…oh…wow…"

"What?" Shawn snatched the paper from his father's hand and read it over quickly. "You're joking!"

"He apparently stole Lord Spencer's girl away. She ran off with a Colm Lassiter to America in eighteen-twenty-six!" Henry laughed out loud. "Now _that's_ funny! A _Far and Away_ story, in our own family tree. Only…yeah…not on the positive side for _us_." He looked up at Shawn and saw his son's stricken expression and rearranged his face into something resembling sympathy before taking the paper back. Henry had already expressed his opinion about how Shawn had ruined his relationship with Juliet, and saw no reason to rub salt in the wound.

Shawn glared at his father, his vague interest in the subject of genealogy fading away to nothing but bitterness. He knew he had screwed it all up with Jules, and now she was with Lassiter, and she was _happy_. He couldn't - wouldn't - begrudge her that, even if it still stung.

Pouting, but ignored by his father, who was deep into the Sawyer side of the family from Tennessee, he left the house. After a moment of looking at the sea, he got on his bike and went in search of Gus and a pineapple smoothie. On the way, he made a private promise to himself to never visit Western Ireland.


End file.
